


The Corpulent Consultant

by ChubRub



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Doctor/Patient, Graphic Sex, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubRub/pseuds/ChubRub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John only has Sherlock's best interests at heart. Well, that was how it all started, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Corpulent Consultant

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a confession on kinkysherlockconfessions' tumblr. "I want to see John abuse his position as a doctor and touch a patient inappropriately. And for that patient to be me." Sorry, anon, but I did not write that person as you. I'm just not that good of a writer.

In the days leading up to his experiment, John had worked up to it with only the best intentions. Sherlock was much too skinny, and he rarely ate more than the occasional apple or pear between cases. During a case, the man will refuse to eat anything at all. His argument that digestion would slow his thinking sounded like nonsense to John, and angered him slightly. As a doctor, he knew that wasn’t possible or healthy. As a friend, he was concerned.

It was a difficult start. Convincing Sherlock to eat involved a combination of cooking meals himself, guilt-tripping the man, and knowing for damn sure that he wouldn’t be able to trick him. He had to lay low for the most part. His motives were pure, but he knew Sherlock would see it as some sort of sabotage, and he couldn’t have that. 

John could admit, maybe he’d let it go on a bit too far. He found the types of food Sherlock actually liked and made them en masse. At some point, without ever discussing it, Mrs. Hudson joined in as well, cooking fresh pastries for the dark-haired man whenever she had a spare moment. She winked at John while putting them next to Sherlock’s music stand. Slowly but surely their usually lacking apartment had a snack within arm’s reach in almost every room, and most of it congregated where Sherlock did his thinking. 

All John wanted to do was make sure his friend was _healthy_. Put a little meat on his bones. No harm in that. Until one day when Sherlock was writing on the walls (he’d run out of paper, you see), and his shirt rode up. It was at that moment that John realized he may have added a tad too much meat onto his friend. A little lip of fat circled around Sherlock’s waist, with the dark-haired man none the wiser as he wrote in bright orange permanent marker over the printed wallpaper. 

“Mrs. Hudson isn’t going to like that.” John commented, eyes glued to Sherlock’s new pudge. It looked like the slacks were about to split his friend in half, and as Sherlock reached up a few inches higher he noticed a bright red mark from where the cloth was attempting to do just that. Poor thing…

“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like many things.” Sherlock said back quickly, but there was a small smirk on his face that showed he may have been looking forward to his landlord’s reaction to his latest vandalism. 

John scoffed and turned away, feeling his face and noting that it was a bit warm. He didn’t know why the thought of Sherlock gaining made him flushed, but he could hazard a guess. He went to the kitchen to fry up a dinner, knowing that he would no longer have to try to convince Sherlock to eat it.

Maybe he should have cut back on the servings after that, but he didn’t. Instead, he made them larger. Just slightly. Sherlock probably noticed, but he didn’t say anything about it. Maybe he didn’t, actually, as Sherlock didn’t stop working on the case as he gobbled up his foods.

The weight kept coming, and John kept a close eye on it, in every sense of the word. Slowly but surely, love handles crept up on Sherlock’s emaciated frame. A little potbelly filled out his shirts, which had already been so tight across the shoulders. Now rather than the top three buttons struggling, they _all_ did. He switched to sweaters and turtlenecks. John noticed. 

His backside… Well, he actually grew one, which was a good start. Soon it started to push out against his slacks, rounded and gorgeous. John may have liked that part the best, even more than the tummy… Really, he liked it all.

Even Sherlock’s cheekbones began to fill out, until his face was slightly rounded. 

For a man who could tell you exactly how much weight you’d gained down to the half-ounce, he seemed remarkably dense when it came to his own body. John wondered if there was some disconnect between Sherlock and his body, given that he concentrated so entirely on improving his mind. He just didn’t _care_ about his body, or at least that was what John had to assume. If he did, he would have caught onto his friends antics months ago. 

The more weight Sherlock came, the less John could lie to himself. He loved everything about his friend’s new body. Plush. He imagined his fingers would sink into Sherlock’s fat belly and backside if he ever had the chance to touch it. Sometimes, if Sherlock wore a shirt tight enough (and lately, almost all of his shirts were), John would be able to see his work jiggle during the man’s quick arm motions. 

About six months after the plan had been put into motion; Sherlock was injured on a case. He’d been chasing a suspect over the rooftops, and his single-mindedness had kept him from noticing how mad it was to jump between two rooftops that were simply too far apart. The man they were chasing had been able to run across a platform he’d made himself, but kicked it away to the ground before Sherlock and John had made it. John had tried to stop his friend, but failed.

Thankfully, he didn’t fall to his death, but he did sprain his shoulder quite badly during the subsequent, desperate grab for the rooftop that very nearly failed. It was John’s duty to tend to it, or at least that was what the consultant insisted. Apparently, Sherlock did not trust other doctors… which was quite touching. They went to the hospital, but Sherlock pulled some strings so he and John were alone in one of the rooms with everything they needed.

John looked to Sherlock’s shoulder. The man was wearing another turtleneck, black. He looked quite annoyed, and John could guess why.

“I’ll have to cut it off to see to your shoulder.” John explained, keeping his face stoic even as his heart leapt again. Sherlock said nothing, which was as close as Sherlock came to being polite when you told him something he already knew. 

John grabbed a pair of scissors and started at the bottom of the shirt, slowly cutting through the material. He could have started at the side, moved up the arm and freed Sherlock’s arm without leaving him completely exposed… But he didn’t. He started right underneath the curve of his friends’ new stomach, and cut up over the bellybutton, and up to Sherlock’s neck. It freed his tummy, and his softened chest, and John felt his breath catch. 

_God, he’s gotten fat_. He thought, knowing he should feel guilty. It was his fault. No wonder Sherlock hadn’t been able to make the jump. He had wondered, because usually the man was so good at knowing his limitations and being able to figure these things out… This time he hadn’t put his newly gained weight into the equation.

“John? My shoulder.” Sherlock reminded, his voice not betraying him in the least. He didn’t look angry, or ashamed. He was just… there. John gulped and nodded, cutting down Sherlock’s bad arm, and then pulling the rest of the shirt off of the good one. He could tell he was doing well, because whenever he worked with Sherlock’s wounds the man didn’t hesitate to hiss when he was too rough.

He bandaged the shoulder and placed the arm in a sling, Sherlock went to stand up, but in a flash decision John put his hand on his good shoulder.

“If you don’t trust doctors, I’m going to assume it’s been a long while since your last physical.” He said, and Sherlock’s eyes sharpened.

“I’m fine.”  


“I’m sure you are. So let me be sure.” John replied. Sherlock paused for a moment before finally sitting back down, looking suspicious. “We have everything we need right here.”

He skipped the questions of medical history, aware of most of it. Smoking, drug use, nicotine patches… He could ask Mycroft about family history later, because the elder Holmes would probably be more forthcoming if it was about Sherlock’s health. Besides… All he really wanted to do was touch the man.

He started with the vital signs even though he knew Sherlock kept an eye on his own. Blood pressure: 115. Heart rate: 85. Respiration rate: 18. Resting temperature: 97.5.

“Your temperature is always lower than average?” he asked, and Sherlock gave him that look that would make a brain surgeon feel like a moron. “Right then.”

He took out his stethoscope and listened for heart rate, leaning in maybe a _bit_ more than he needed to. Sherlock’s stomach was so pudgy now it grazed his slightly chubby thighs. Perfect. 

“No murmurs, perfectly regular…” he said, writing all of this down to at least pretend to be professional. “Lungs are good, open up and say ‘ah’.”

Sherlock kept his mouth closed tightly.

“Don’t be thick.” John said softly, shaking his head. “Opening up and saying "ah" shows me your throat and tonsils. I’m not just doing it to make you look childish.”

Sherlock obeyed and opened up then, but stayed quiet. John rolled his eyes and worked with what he had rather than trying to push the issue. Besides, this part was boring anyway. It was all for show. This was all working up on the climax. 

He leaned down then and tapped Sherlock’s abdomen. _God_. It was so soft. So perfectly soft. He did what he was meant to do, checking the liver size and looking for problems, listening for anything unusual… But it took much longer than it should have, and he knew it. 

But even this wasn’t the best part.

“Alright then. Up on the scale.”


End file.
